From the Confidential Files of S Holmes
by xdeathberry
Summary: Short oneshot on Sherlock's erratic thoughts.


_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss_

**From the Confidential Files of S. Holmes**

* * *

Bored. Bored. Bored. All the cases we've been offered these days are so dreadfully boring, but John keeps insisting on accepting them all like a good Samaritan. He keeps rambling on about nonsense such as our shortage of money, or some sort of business like that, but I must say, I don't quite think he knows that half the time I don't listen to a word he's saying. I suppose it must run both ways. I've been talking to him and he hasn't responded at all.

"John, make me tea," I asked for the second time.

I received no response.

"John?" I turned my head to see if he was in the kitchen. Only silence welcomed me.

He's not here. Where is he? He only goes out when he has a date or a plans with his little friends, but neither fits the case as he never makes plans on Mondays. Where would he be...oh yes, I sent him off to buy milk about an hour ago. I do like a touch of milk with my cup of tea. He also mentioned something about his missing jam after complaining about the severed head in the fridge I pilfered from the medical department at the local university. It's not my fault his processed fruit takes up precious space.

My dear brother, Mycroft, half-heartedly warns me to stop stealing cadavers from the university, but I always ignore him and have continued without consequence. That is one advantage of having the British government as your brother (although he always denies it).

He is, however, getting a bit annoying in his habit of recruiting me to clean up his messes. It used to be nearly impossible to get me to agree to help, but now he just goes through John. Sneaky. And, as smart as John is (for an average human being), it would be an act of crime to leave him to investigate on his own. There have been a few instances where he's almost reached the correct conclusion, but sometimes those who don't think well outside the box can loiter, but never reach the answer. I always shadow his every move.

I like to watch him grow, to think for himself. I don't quite see him as my protegé as no one can match the mind of Sherlock Holmes, but I am getting quite fond of the fellow. I'm sure dear old mother would disapprove of such a strange partnership which makes me all the more eager to keep John in my company. It is also very beneficial to have a doctor around. I do tend to acquire his services every now and then.

A fortnight ago, John and I were chasing down a dreadfully sloppy criminal. He left his tracks everywhere so it was very simple to deduce. I believe the fellow was the head butler of the Warrington family, scorned by the head mistress. Apparently they had carried on an affair, none which is of my concern, but John found it amusing and said, "It's always the butler." I don't understand what he means.

I had, unfortunately, acquired a bad scrape and lost a bit of blood, but John had helped me to walk and had it promptly cleaned up once we reached the flat. Since then, I've been wasting away in this apartment. I needed a challenge if only to keep my mind off smoking. John hid my cigarettes again and I've been aching for (note: check the skull) one. Or two. I tried searching his room, but they were nowhere in sight. Pity.

Ah, I hear someone walking up the stairs. It's John, obviously judging from the amount of incessant creaking being made. It's easy to differentiate the sounds of each person by the weight they press upon the old stairs.

"Sherlock! Come. Help me," I heard John grunt as he attempted to carry more than he could up the steps. I rolled my eyes and didn't move an inch. It was rather chilly so I just wrapped my dressing gown tighter around myself.

"Sherlock. Sher-," he stopped mid-speech as he reached the doorway. "Thank you, very much, for that," he muttered as he struggled towards the kitchen with two armfuls of groceries. I thought I had sent him just for milk.

"Sherlock! I thought I told you clear the table of your experiment. It's unsanitary."

Oh did he? I wasn't listening. But then again, even if I had listened I wouldn't have done it anyway.

"Don't touch a single thing, John," I warned from the armchair I was currently occupying as he stood behind me. "I'm working on a very important experiment and I would prefer it to be free of any foreign substances." He just merely tutted his tongue and began to take the food out the bags, but stopped to clear the counter of my numerous beakers and flasks that weren't in use.

"Did you check the post? I'm waiting for an important job offer," John mentioned as he carefully placed his strawberry jam on the counter top.

No, I did not.

I ignored him, and continued to stare into space, thinking about the many ways to differentiate the types of tobacco on the blog I had taken down out of spite. The world has been taken aback by John and his own mediocre blog chronicling our "adventures" as he puts it-inaccurately if I might add-and he dared to scoff at my educational piece of art. It seems to be evident that the masses don't seem to understand quality, what, with their boring little average minds. I wonder how it feels to be average. No, I would imagine I'd loathe it. I would miss my mind palace. But surely I am not the only one to find the different types of tobacco fascinating. I keep telling him not to write about the cases that were difficult (in his opinion, not mine. I reach certain...obstacles, but never difficulty), but he refuses to listen.

John dusted his hands and walked over into the living room after he had finished placing everything back on the shelves.

"Sherlock, stop shaking your leg," he ordered as he passed by me to sit on the couch. He picked up today's newspaper and began to read.

"Only if you tell me where you hid my cigarettes."

"You do this every time. Stop it. You said you were going to quit and I agreed to assist. It's a bad habit."

"Then find me a case," I demanded.

John sighed. I don't understand why he's always so adamant about defying me. I scratched at the bandages on my other leg. It was getting rather itchy.

"Stop scratching, Sherlock," he said without looking up.

I stopped.

"Give me just one cigarette. I won't look where you hid them."

"No, Sherlock."

I glanced over at him as he turned the page.

"You got the job," I told him.

"Really? Wait, you went through my mail?"

"No."

"Then how do you know?"

I didn't answer him.

"Make me tea," I asked for the third time as he peered at me above the top of his newspaper. I don't appreciate when he ignores me. Oh yes. John is fond of manners, something I don't understand.

"Please," I added.

John sighed.

"Just another day at 221B Baker Street," he muttered under his breath as he folded the newspaper in half and placed it on the coffee table. He shoved off from the couch and walked over to the kitchen to place the kettle on the stove."You're welcome," John said from the kitchen.

* * *

**A/N:**

Well then. That's that.  
The fic is under 'humor' because..well, I personally find it funny. haha

This one-shot was written for something that never came through, so I'm posting it up here! :)  
I've been meaning to do it, but I never actually got 'round to doing it because I kept forgetting.  
Did I mention my short term memory is notoriously terrible? Well, about things I don't really care about. Haha I always lose my wallet and my cellphone.

Acutally, now that we're on that...where _is_ my phone..?  
My long-term memory, however, is excellent.  
I just use logic to figure out where I left it. Like every day.  
(It's probably in the kitchen haha)

And if anyone knows any good fics with mentions of Doctor!John, send 'em my way! I love when John plays Doctor Watson to Sherlock. Platonically. (lol!)

Thank you very much for reading! :)


End file.
